


scorched earth

by CorvidFeathers



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mentors, Mild Hurt/Comfort, The Desolation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: A study of Gertrude Robinson and those she burned through.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Robinson & Emma Harvey, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im fascinated by Gertrude and her assistants and her adamantly-not-assistants and her web of extremely messed up friendships 
> 
> thanks to hannah for cheering this fic on and also getting me into tma <3
> 
> This fic is nonlinear: the very first segment is a preface, and then the scenes that are italicized go backwards, and the scenes that are in plain text go forward in time.
> 
> content warnings: emotional manipulation, betrayal, brief body horror involving death by burning

When you step into the darkness of Document Storage, you realize you’re not alone.

You throw the light switch, braced for some horror of the Dark unfolding before you, and instead find yourself staring into the face of Gerard Keay.

You stare at each other in the flickering light. The harsh glare of the fluorescents doesn’t do him any favors; it’s apparent how thin he is, how worn, how pallid. None of _that_ is new. But the livid purple bruise creeping up the side of his face is, as are the scrapes on his knuckles and the rusty smudge on his nose.

“Gerard,” you say. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

He collects himself in a moment, and you see him relax, disarm. He yawns and unfolds from the cot like a cat. 

“Dealt with another would-be book collector for you,” he says, and then reaches down to a backpack and pulls out a stack of papers. “He had a few leads. Meant to surprise you with them, first thing this morning.” He squints skeptically at the clock on the wall. “Suppose I overslept.”

“You’re lucky I’m the first one down here today.” You step past him, and go to the shelves, scanning for the correct box. 

He shrugs. “Seems like you’re the only one down here most days.” By way of illustration, runs a finger over the nearest shelf, sending dust billowing up into the crisp dryness of the climate-controlled aid. “Don’t understand why they call you the head archivist, anyway. Head of who? Shouldn’t you just be the Archivist?”

The word hangs in the air between the two of you for a moment longer than it should. Your temple throbs. 

He blinks, and sits back down, as if he’s just come over dizzy.

You return to your search. “There are students and the like who come to look through the stacks,” you say. “I’d hate for them to trip over you. I can’t imagine what they’d think.” You cast a pointed glance over your shoulder, and Gerard catches it with bluff insouciance. 

“If someone else caught me, I would have just told them I was here on your orders,” he says. “You think any of those paper-pushers would dare to question the almighty word of Gertrude?”

You frown. “Perhaps not. But we don’t need anyone asking questions.” 

* * *

_“My, my,” the man who wears Elias Bouchard’s face says, folding his hands and giving you his best impression of a conciliatory smile. “I suppose these differences are irreconcilable, then.” He studies you with something you suspect is appreciation, fondness even, though you’re loath to put that particular spin on it._

_All these years of working together, working around each other, you suppose it’s natural he’s come to know certain things about you. Perhaps he is even fond of you, in the way one grows fond of their tools._

_“A known enemy is one who can be controlled. Watched,” he says, looking again at the documents you placed before him. “It could even be useful.”_

_You shake your head. “This has gone on too long for that.” Maybe if you’d been aware of it from the beginning. “There’s only one way to deal with an infestation.”_

_He laughs. It’s a pleasant sound; that never changed. “I suppose it has.”_

_Thirty years at your side. Thirty years , you’d trusted Emma, gentle, steadfast, dependable Emma, the one who took all the new assistants under her wing and showed them the ropes-_

_Well. There had been ropes involved. Just of the more web-like variety._

_You bite down on the bitter impulse to smile. The patches of frostbite on your cheeks smart, a stinging pain that sinks into your nerves. Suddenly, what little patience you had for this conversation has gone up in smoke. “You approve of my course of action, then?”_

_“Do as you like. Provided it isn’t done in the Archives, of course,” Elias says. “My, Gertrude, you know how to burn through resources. A whole archival staff, gone in a fortnight.”_

_A retort almost gets it way off your tongue before you clamp down on it. But it’s too late; the defensiveness must have shown on your face. He doesn’t care for your assistants; whatever price, whatever resources you need to stop the rituals, he will always place them at your disposal. It was simply a petty gibe._

_Sarah Carpenter needn’t have died._

_(Not now. Not yet.)_

_“I suppose we’ll need to do some recruitment,” Elias says, closing the folder with a gesture of finality. “But there’s always some bright minds looking to get out of Artifact Storage.”_

_“No,” you say. The word comes from your lips with a vehemence that almost startles you, and hangs in the dead air of Elias’s office for a moment. He blinks, slowly._

_“No more assistants,” you say. “I am quite capable of handling things on my own, from here on.”_

* * *

For a long time, your work is solitary, save for Adelard’s occasional missive, and even rarer visit. The other desks remain out in the main room, empty save for the cobwebs you systematically eliminate every fortnight.

Whenever Elias visits, he lets his eyes track over the desks with a little shake of his head and a _tsk_ of bland disapproval, but he doesn’t do anything else to reopen the subject.

One year turns to another, one ritual to another; the Lonely’s ritual crumbles with an email, but the Buried calls for more blood. 

You knew Jan Kilbride would come in handy. Poor man. At least it didn’t require his active participation. You wouldn’t want another Distortion on your hands.

Then a statement crosses your desk, and you read about Gerard Keay burning. _Better Beholding than the Lightless Flame._ He tangled with the Desolation and held his own. Not an easy feat. 

You made a promise, years ago. You’ve kept an eye on him, but extricating him from Mary’s grasp always seemed… unlikely. Complicated, when he’s well on his way to becoming a fully fledged avatar of the Eye. 

Perhaps it would be worth it. 

* * *

_“Did she suffer?” you ask. You don’t need to. You’ve burned before. You know what it is to burn._

_But you need to know what it was for Sarah. Somewhere, Michael’s faith carried him through a maze of corridors and madness, and ran out. Somewhere, the siren song of gravedirt called Fiona to its depths. Somewhere, Eric bled out under Mary Keay’s hands._

_But for all your responsibility, the ends have always been obscured from you. The awful truth of their deaths._

_Agnes looks at you for a long moment._

_You expected her to be beautiful the way an inferno you share is beautiful; all fury and destruction. But she’s just beautiful._

_“Yes,” she says at last, softly, and reaches up to touch your face._

_Her movement is slow and telegraphed. You could recoil if you wanted, but you don’t._

_You don’t burn, anymore. Any hurt the two of you could have done to each other is thirty years past._

_But you feel it, the heat. When you and Agnes were bound, the fire came from within; it burned you out for months before you and Emma figured out how to mitigate it._

_This time, the heat comes from all around you, enfolding you, smothering you until your flesh wicks away and turns to ash-_

_Her fear. You can taste her fear, bright and hot on your tongue._

_Agnes draws her hand back with a small gasp._

_Rage curls in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s you, or the fire, or Sarah’s fear lingering in Agnes’ eyes._

Emma. 

_“Our lives have never been our own,” Agnes says. Softly. Cruel. Comforting._

_Your life has been your own, as much as you could make it. You’ve fought them for so long, foiled them at every turn, tangled and disrupted and broken- all under the auspices of the Eye._

_And the Web, it seems._

_“No,” you say, at last. You try not to lie to yourself. Or her._

_“What are you going to do?” Curiosity simmers in her eyes. She knows what she would do, but she doesn’t put words to it. You can feel it anyway, burning along the connection between you._

_You smile. “I’m going to burn her.”_

* * *

Gerard Keay joins your little mission with his eyes wide open. 

He’s not like Michael, or Sarah, or even Eric. 

He knows exactly what you are, and what you do. You don’t know the details, but you’re sure you factor into the cosmos of horrors his mother constructed for him, the never-blunted edges of the sing-song tightrope of Mary Keay’s worldview. _The Archivist_.

He looks at you with wide-eyed wonder just once, when you pass the scorched cover of the book over the table of the rundown cafe. 

For a moment, his hand just hovers over the gnarled leather. Then he seizes the cover and and opens in it one violent motion, as if he’s afraid it will burn him and wants to get the pain over with. 

In the wan morning light, the life’s work of Mary Keay looks like nothing more than a few scraps of burned parchment barely clinging to the binding of the book. A loop or two of ink remains, but nothing legible.

His eyes flick up to you, all hostility and suspicion swept away by relief. “She’s gone.”

You nod.

It was easy, burning her. Like Eric had been, but with the satisfaction of a hand well played. Mary always had been cruel and short-sighted, never willing to look up from the pages of her books. Never an obstacle, but you won’t lose sleep over another monster.

You sit there together, the soft, sentimental drone of the music filling the space between you. Gerard presses a trembling hand to his face. A tear slips down his cheek, and then another.

It doesn’t last long. He reaches out and slams the book shut, and then shuts it away into his backpack, and then looks up at you, pinning you with those clear, gray eyes. 

“What now?” he asks. There’s a sullen note in his tone; like he loathes the blank cheque he’s just handed you, is expecting you to twist it to hurt him. 

Maybe you will. 

“Now,” you say. “You go home and get some sleep.”

His face twists, and he gives you a look that you can read quite plainly: _I’m not going to play your games._ “What _then_?” 

“Then,” you say. “We get to work.”

* * *

_“Miss Robinson?”_

_There’s fear bleeding from Michael’s voice again. He was quiet the whole ride in the launch, quiet as the stern-faced sailor at the oars. You can feel the fear creeping up in him, chewing at the fibers of his nerves, filling his head with static._

_You take a breath of the impossibly-warm air, letting the heat settle in your body. It’s that, you decide, that steadies you; not the quickly-slipping composure of your assistant._

_You turn to face him. Light isn’t quite working in the usual manner; it dapples his face in fractals of pink and blue and yellow, colors twisting and melding into other colors in impossible sequences. The earth beneath your feet is warm, and seems to breathe._

_Michael’s eyes are wide and unchanged, dull, plain, normal blue._

_“What’s happening-” The syllables of the question fracture into unintelligibility, and he shakes his head. “What are we doing here?”_

_He’s looking into your face with a desperate sort of intensity, and you Know that he’s clinging to you as the one point of stillness in the writhing, twisting, living atmosphere._

_Faith. In those wide, unmarked eyes. After all of this._

_A part of the truth is all you will give him. “You came to the Institute because an evil took your friend,” you say._

_He blinks. He’s never told you that, but he won’t question you now. He nods._

_“We’re going to stop that evil,” you say. “A great evil.”_

_“For- for good?”_

_“For good.” This is a place of lies. What’s one more?_

* * *

Gerard does not look at you with faith.

Sometimes that's almost a relief.

* * *

_The further North you go, the harder it is to pretend._

_The cold strips away the carefully-constructed layers of congeniality, with the razor’s-edge of pain that caresses at your joints. You brought more than enough statements, but the lingering weakness comes the part of you that craves the fire, that burns ._

_Captain Lukas is a permissive host, but you suspect that will stop short of building bonfires on the deck of his ship._

_Michael doesn’t question the cargo ship, or the silent, sullen crew. He doesn’t blink at Peter Lukas- he knows the Institute quite well, couldn’t fail to recognize the name of such a prominent donor! - or the man’s steadfast avoidance of your company._

_Characteristically, he focuses instead on what made sense to him: you._

_All told, you should have expected it. Did expect it, even. But you didn’t quite factor in the irritation of being doted on by a boy you’re condemning to a very painful death. At best ._

_“Miss Robinson?” Michael’s voice cuts through the silence of Arctic Sea. He crosses the deck with the same easy stride as the sailors. He had been dreadfully ill at first, but he had recovered with admirable speed. All in the name of following around on your heels._

_Now he’s at your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks. “You’ve been out here for hours.” His fingers are curled around one of the chipped ship’s mugs, and steam curls up into the frigid air as he holds it out to you._

_“Perfectly fine,” you snap, taking the mug, because it’s easier than refusing, because it’s what the frail, stupid old woman he thinks you are would do. “You needn’t check in on me every moment, Michael. Surely you have better things to be doing.”_

_The heat scalds through your cold-bitten fingers, scorching away the numbness in tingling pain. But it does almost feel nice._

_He frowns. “Not- not really,” he says. “I mean, I brought files, but - I’ve gotten through almost all of them already, and there’s nothing- nothing real there.” His frustration is palpable, for a moment._

_Bless Emma. It should have been her here, instead of you; she would know what to say. She would be able to maintain an air of gentle fragility until the last moment._

_“Do you think any of it is?” he says at last. “Real, I mean. I mean, I know it is, it must be, but-“_

_“Yes,” you say, looking out the endless plains of cold. “I do.”_

_You take a breath sick sort of weariness sinks into your chest with the icy air. It’s too early for it, but you can’t focus on the babble of Michael’s voice. The painful heat between your hands is the only point of reality in the endless white and gray._

_“Miss Robinson?” he says, that note of concern winding its way through his voice again._

_You let him take your elbow and escort you below. You don’t look at his face._

* * *

_Click_ , goes the lighter in Gerard’s hands. _Click._

Fire blooms to life, dies, lives again. _Click._ The light dances over his wan features. _Click._

You can feel the heat of it, cutting through the damp chill of the night. One more little piece of evidence that the connection hadn’t ended it with her death. It should worry you; it doesn’t. There are always far more pressing matters.

“Gerard,” you say. At the note of reproach in your voice, he looks up, and gives you a crooked smile. “Put that away. You’ll burn yourself.”

The smile doesn’t fade, but his laugh is dark. “Nah,” he says. “What is it? Once burned, twice shy?”

It’s a patently ridiculous thing to say, but then again, so was your admonishment.

He doesn’t put the lighter away, but he lowers his hand, and peers into the darkness.

Movement at the end of the block catches your eye. Some sort of delivery worker, making their way down the street. They stop in front of the Trophy Shop storefront, giving the glassy-eyed display a double-take, and then knock on the door.

“That doesn’t look like one of them,” you say.

He draws in a breath, like a creature scenting the air, and then shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so.” His eyes narrow. “Think they might be marked, though.” 

_You can’t smell it?_ he asked you once, incredulous. “ _When things are wrong. Touched by a power._

You would have laughed, if it weren’t for the earnest look in his eye.

 _Something of a bloodhound, are you?_ you’d said, uneasy.

His smile had been pointed. _My most useful quality, my mum always said._

Strange. You would expect such a thing to be the purview of the Hunt. 

You can see the tension coiling in him, but before he can move the door of the Trophy Shop opens, light spilling out onto the street. The silhouette of the man in the doorway moves in a strange, stiff way, but the delivery person doesn’t seem to notice.

A flutter of words is exchanged; the delivery person takes a step back, and then, stupidly, inexplicably, a step forward, across the threshold of the shop.

Gerard curses. 

“Gerard-!”

He’s already off, crossing the street in long strides, heading for the door. 

Survival has never been a skill you imparted upon others. Chiefly, because it isn’t a task you are particularly suited to, and it has always suited you to leave others at least partially in the dark. There’s something of the Eye in you, after all; knowledge is _yours_.

And there’s also the matter that survival in this world is no easy thing to teach. You’ve made it this far by your wits, yes, and no small part of luck. And the rules for an Archivist are different from the rules for others. 

Gerard knows much of survival already. 

Still, there’s something about the raw, unrefined recklessness with which he throws himself headlong into situations that makes you itch to _lecture_.

Maybe it’s his own relationship with Beholding. Maybe it’s just because he’s a very _rash_ young man. 

You take a breath, and follow him. 

* * *

_You couldn’t say what possesses you to pick up the book._

_It’s old; a gift from Emma years ago that you never got around to reading. If memory serves, she brought it to you in the hospital. A kind thought, but you hadn’t quite had the focus for reading. There's an inscription on the first page in Emma's spidery handwriting. Be well._

_When turn the page, the photograph falls from the pages, and lies on the dark fabric of your couch, staring up at you with sun-bleached eyes._

_Your first instinct is to reach for your lighter._

_The faces in the picture are smiling. You can’t recall the occasion; one of Mendelson’s events, no doubt. You look painfully serious, and painfully young. Eric, beside you, is looking at the camera with a mild-mannered sort of discomfort, as if he wasn’t quite ready for the flash. Emma has her arms around you and Eric, and is laughing, trying the beckon Fiona closer. Her eyes are half-closed, her face a blur of movement. Fiona’s barely a shadow at the edge of the frame, her face turned away._

_Eric is looking up at you._

_There’s a tremor to your hands as you pick up the scissors. Fatigue; the late nights are starting to catch up with you. The Great Twisting is fast approaching, and you’re still not certain- you can’t be sure-_

_You cut the eyes from Eric’s face carefully, with the sort of sentimentality you do your best avoid, and hide the picture back amongst the pages._

_The book goes back on the shelf, and you don’t touch it again._

* * *

“Admit it,” Gerard says, leaning forward in the booth. His eyes are alight. “You’re _delighted_.”

Smoke is still clinging to your jacket, your hair. It’s the acrid miasma of scorched leather and hair, but it still makes your pulse flutter. “I’ve always found fire the most useful tool to disrupt delicate workings,” you say, primly. “As you discovered, yourself.”

“Sure,” he says, sitting back. “But you _enjoy_ it.”

“I enjoy a job finished.”

“Pyromaniac.”

You don’t deign to dignify that with a response. 

“It’s finished, then?” he asks. 

“Hm?”

“The Unknowing,” he says, playing with the empty sugar packets. He folds them into little shapes, and then starts to shred them methodically. "Without their weird skin... thing."

“Oh, I expect not,” you say. “The Stranger is… adaptable, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain. I believe any part of the ritual could be substituted.”

He lets the scraps of paper flutter from his hands, and gives you a look. “What’s the point, then?”

“With luck, this will delay them a few years. Give us enough time to really figure out how to stop them,” you say.

“Us,” he says. “Hmm.”

“Planning a change of careers?” you ask. 

“What? No,” he says, and then pauses. “I don’t think I could.” He considers. “Though _this_ is hardly a career. An occupation, maybe. I don’t suppose the Institute would put me on retainer.”

Something cold coils in your gut. “That would be a very bad idea.”

He frowns. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want it anyway, I think.” He considers. “You can’t really walk away, can you? Not if you’re like… us.” There’s a split second where his eyes go to you, and there’s a glimmer of hope kindling in his eyes, the hope of refutation. 

_Your father walked away_ , you could say. For all the good that did him. But you say nothing, and let him assume.

His face doesn’t fall. He’s too practiced at hiding his feelings for that. But he does sigh, and slump back against the worn fabric of the booth. 

“We are still human,” you say. “Broadly speaking. Regardless of any allegiances.”   
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops this is three chapters now!!  
> big thank you to @agarthanguide who read my messy dialogue and suggested the perfect scenarios to frame it <3 she's a gem!  
> i'm tagging this hurt/comfort but the comfort is the minimal and conditional comfort gertrude is capable of.  
> like last chapter, this fic is nonlinear: the scenes that are italicized go backwards, and the scenes that are in plain text go forwards in time.  
> content warnings for: injury, mild body horror, manipulation/false concern, and abuse of power. more specifics cws in the end notes!

The last words of the statement fade from your ears as you set the paper down.

You sit back and take a breath, letting the stillness of the Archives settle over you again and chase the stranger’s fear from your chest, your muscles.

It doesn’t feel like fear anymore. It feels like- a growing-in sort of pain. The kind that comes with change, like the ache of a worked muscle. 

Or the itch of a new tooth pushing its way through the gums.

You do not care to learn what is at its completion.

But the fact remains that you’ve been in this business long enough to need it. And you do feel better, now. Stronger. 

You sigh and glance to the clock. Well past dark; it’s likely you’re the only soul in the Institute, unless Elias is lurking about. 

You’re just slipping the statement back into its folder when something crashes in the hallway outside.

A moment later, there’s a knock on the door.

You freeze. You’re considering the weapons available to you when a voice drifts through the wood. “Gertrude. It’s me.” 

_Gerard._ You glance at your phone, but there’s no new message. 

Gerard Keay: _Going on an errand. I’ll have something for you tomorrow morning._ (7:01 pm) 

Well, he does know his way into the Archives. “Come in.”

The door creaks open, and Gerard steps into the doorframe, and leans against it. His hair is wild, stuck through with leaves and bits of grits, and something’s torn through the front of his coat, leaving the leather hanging in ribbons from his shoulders.

“Gertrude,” he says, his tone strangely flat for the way he’s trembling. “A Hunter’s following me. Couldn’t shake it.” 

“I take it the errand went poorly,” you say. “Are you hurt?” 

Gerard shakes his heads, though he’s an alarming shade of pale. “It only got me a little. Sorry. I- Sorry.” He falls silent, a half-beat of hesitation before continuing. “I thought it was a good bet it wouldn’t cross the threshold here. I think I was right, considering.”

Considering that a monstrosity of the Hunt isn’t barreling through the halls of your Archive this moment.

“Yes. Well, the Institute will deter many things.” You sigh, pushing back your chair and getting to your feet. “But don’t get complacent. There are always exceptions.”

You push the footstool to the corner of your office, and step up onto it to pull books from the highest shelf, handing them down to Gerard. He takes them with less than steady hands, and watches you in perplexed silence. Behind the books sits a long metal gunsafe.

You lug it down from the shelf, and drop it onto the desk, then search your keyring until you find the right key. The safe clicks, and you swing it open to reveal the worn shape of a shotgun resting within.

The tarnished metal meets your fingers with a familiar, lingering warmth.

Gerard blinks, dumping the books onto your desk. “What _else_ do you keep in here?”

You slide open your desk drawer and take out the box of shells, and start loading the shotgun. “ _Don’t_ get any ideas.”

* * *

_You step into your office and close the door behind you, cutting off the sound of Sarah’s whimpering and Michael’s nervous babble, and sit there looking through the latest records until the taste of your assistants’ fear fades from your mouth._

_When the paramedics have come and gone, there’s a knock on your door. Light, unobtrusive._

_“Come in,” you say._

_Emma steps inside. She has a certain grace, a surety of movement; she steps as if going through the motions of a dance. When you were first acquainted you envied that surety as much as you admired it, but you like to think you’ve found your own._

_“Michael’s gone with Sarah,” she says. “I thought it best if I went, but he insisted. He was very upset.”_

_“Mmm. Little wonder there,” you say. “He’s seen little… aftermath, before.”_

_“I worry this is my fault,” she says, smoothing a hand over her hair. She must have washed her hands meticulously; there’s no blood lingering under nails. Under the fluorescents, she looks old. Worn. The distinguished spiders-web of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes are deeper than you remember them._

_“Nonsense,” you say, brusque._

_“If…” she begins, and bites off the word. “If Sarah dies-“_

_“If she dies, it will have been the work of the Slaughter, or the Flesh, or whatever entity corrupted those knives,” you say. “There’s no use being sorry.”_

* * *

In the shuttered lobby, you can feel the chill of the night. The Hunter is a slim shadow against one of the Institute's columns, silhouetted in the yellow light spilling in from the streetlights. Drawn taut, waiting. The form is nominally human, medium-height and dressed in a raincoat and jeans, but there’s something coiled within it, a _wrongness_.

Gerard fumbles for a cigarette. The fire flickers to life, flare-bright in the twilight darkness of the lobby.

Outside, the Hunter’s head snaps up. Two points glow from the shadow, light reflected, wolf-like, in the thing’s eyes.

“Freaky,” Gerard murmurs, lighting his cigarette.

“Gerard,” you say, sitting in the secretary’s seat. 

“What? What’s Elias going to do about it?” he says, blowing smoke. “ _I_ don’t work for him.”

You settle in the chair, resting the shotgun on the counter, and look out to the Hunter. And you Watch.

And wait.

Now and then, its silhouette seems to shudder, something pushing beyond the frame of its body. A half hour stretches to an hour as you observe each twitch, each flicker in the form outside. 

You can practically hear the Hunt beating through the creature’s blood, howling, demanding the chase. A seasoned Hunter knew the value of a wait. But a seasoned Hunter was unlikely to come so close to the Institute.

Gerard leans against the counter and smokes a cigarette down to ash, and then another, his eyes flickering between you and the figure. His coat and piercings gleam in the bleed of yellow light.

At some point his hands stop trembling and he becomes a still figure in your periphery, a tangle of leather and eyes that _watch_ you watching. 

The tension breaks in a moment; one moment, the Hunter is still leaning against the column. Between one blink and the next, it’s gone.

You wait another half hour, just to make sure. 

At least, you shift and look away. Something fades from the room, an almost-sound you hadn’t even noticed. In its absence, Gerard relaxes.

“A pity it wouldn’t be baited closer,” you say, beginning to unload the shotgun. 

A bark of laughter escapes Gerard. “A pity.”

“Hopefully, he will be gone by morning." If you’re an effective enough deterrent at the moment, surely the thing doesn’t want to cross Elias. “But you’d best spend the night in the Archives.”

Gerard sucks in a breath through his teeth, but says nothing as you stand, and start towards the stairs. After a moment, he follows, falling in step beside you. 

Once you’re on the stairwell, you round on him, pinning him to the wall with your stare. “What were you _doing_?”

He winces. “Remember the Leitner on that collector’s list? _Zaroff’s Hounds_. Turned up at private auction. One of mum’s old colleagues still calls the shop every now and then, and leaves messages. Not sure if he knows she’s dead, honestly.” He shrugs. “I followed the lead, and the auction turned out to be a whole nest of Hunters. Some sort of- social gathering.”

“The Leitner-“

“I was watching. I know who got it. I was following her, but-” He takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t count on a sore loser looking for sport. Caught me off guard.”

“You don’t turn your back on _Hunters_ like that-“

“I know!”

“Clearly you don’t, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” You turn away and resume walking. After a moment, his footsteps follow you.

“Gertrude-“

“Don’t _Gertrude_ me, Gerard-

Lecturing. You’re lecturing. 

“ _Gertrude_.”

The tone of his voice catches you. You turn just in time to see him put a hand to his side, and pull it away slick with crimson. He blinks, and puts his hand to his head, leaving smears of blood on his temples.

And then he’s crumpling.

* * *

_The ragged scream meets your ears when you step into the Archives._

_“Miss Robinson!” Michael’s eyes are almost wide enough to start swallowing the freckles at their corners. “Sarah’s been hurt.”_

_The way he says it is almost like a question, and he hovers in front of you, as if he wants to shield you from the scene unfolding behind him. He’s not quite bold enough to actually stand in your way, though, so you duck past him without much trouble._

_Sarah’s laid out on the floor, with the pale lilac of Emma’s jacket under her head. Emma is knelt awkwardly beside her, pressing a wad of fabric to her midsection. There’s slick, dark red seeping from under her fingers, through the white of Sarah’s blouse._

_It’s not quite moving like blood should . It oozes and twists like a thing alive._

_Sarah writhes under Emma’s touch, a whine of agony escaping her._

_“What happened?” Your voice comes out harsh enough to make Michael jump. A day. You had been away a day. You had expected the Archives could function in your absence for that long._

_“Miss Robinson.” Sarah tries to sit up when she sees you, but all she manages to do is raise herself a few inches and grow alarmingly pale. “We- We were looking into the McKay statement- The knife that- that-”_

_Emma makes a soothing noise, her fingers carding through Sarah’s hair, as if soothing a child. Her other hand is still pressed firmly to Sarah’s midsection. “It turns out, there wasn’t just one knife.”_

_“What- what did-” Michael is still hovering, his eyes going from the blood, to Emma, to you. He’s almost as ashen as Sarah, but he’s making a valiant effort to hide the static crackle of terror jumping from his skin-_

_No, that isn’t a wise tangent to follow. Everyone is looking at you. You draw a breath, forcing the dry air of the Archives into your lungs. “Why hasn’t anyone called 999?” you ask._

_For all her competence, Emma sometimes forgets the most simple of measures._

_“I wasn’t sure-” Emma begins, but stops herself, with a shake of her head. “Michael,” she says. “Won’t you call? I want to stay here with Sarah.”_

_“Of- of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back, Sarah, it’ll be alright.”_

_You wait for the sound of his footsteps to fade before turning to Emma. “For goodness sake, why did you come back here?”_

_Emma frowns. “I didn’t realize she’d been hurt,” she says. “You should have said something, Sarah.” Her voice is brittle, but there’s a familiar note of fondness there._

_If you would allow it, it would bring you back to long evenings in your newly-acquired office, fumbling through the basics of the world you had been thrust into. Emma was always looking out for the others. Even for you._

_“It was just- just a scratch when we left,” Sarah gasps. “I swear. I swear , it just nicked me, I didn’t anything of it, I-”_

_“You weren’t thinking straight,” Emma soothes._

_“It was just a scratch…”. For all the pain, there’s a note of wonder in her voice. She’s less afraid than Michael. Her breathing is ragged. It strikes you that she might very well die, right here in the Archives._

_Her face twists, and she begins to cry, low, rasping sobs that wrench her body in ways that only makes the pain greater. Emma’s free hand curls around her shoulder, and she murmurs little, comforting nothings._

_You kneel next to Sarah, cursing your joints as they protest the activity. Her eyes roll up to you as you lean closer, peering at her, really looking at her._

_A glance is enough; you yank your awareness away as soon as you’ve seen the creeping tendrils of violence lingering in her skin. Residual; once again, she had been lucky._

_Sarah’s eyes meet yours, and a choked sob escapes her. Her lips waver and form breathless words. It hurts. It hurts._

_In all likelihood she would survive, as little comfort as that might be to her in the present moment. You can’t do anything else for her._

_There’s a question in her gaze, and she’s close enough to the Watcher that it bubbles up in the air between you, a wall of confusion pressed directly into your mind with the flailing desperation of someone trying to escape pain: why why why._

_Those inquisitive eyes, tawny brown and gold, watch you for an answer._

_You tear yourself away from the intensity of her gaze, and from the familiar feeling creeping under your skin, like your own blood is writhing._

_There’s little you could do for her but reassure, and soft words are always best left to Emma._

* * *

Beneath the shredded leather, Gerard’s flesh was shredded too, and he’d been quietly bleeding all the while. You do your best with the first aid kit, and manage to rouse him long enough to get him down the hallway and to the cot in Archive Storage.

It’s possible that you should call an ambulance. But that thing is still out there, waiting, and a hospital is never safe. 

So you sit and wait, filling the space between his breaths and the hum of the climate control with the click and clack of your knitting needles. The knit is clumsy, uneven, still. You never have enough time to practice.

You don’t watch him toss and turn on the cot. 

The copper tang of blood hangs heavy in the air. You’ve gotten used to it. 

“Gertrude?” The voice drifts out of the darkness. There’s a note to it that you don’t think you’ve heard in his voice before: plaintive. Pleading. Afraid, almost. 

“Gerard.” Your voice is dry. Steady. 

_Clack. Clack. Clack._

Gerard shifts and eyes you. In the glow of the reading lamp his eyes are bewildered slivers of silver. A sheen of sweat stands out against his skin. He looks like a corpse. 

You’ve taken care of very few people, you realize as you rattle the bottle of painkillers and tip a few into your palm. When you pass them to him, he grabs your hand for a moment, and you allow it. 

_You should have told me_ , you could say, but those words have been burned out of your mouth. 

“What did I tell you about staying intact?”

His only response is a wince and a ragged laugh. 

“You said… broadly,” he says at last.

“I suppose so.”

Clack. Clack. Clack. You watch the knitting loop and twist and unfold in your hands, instead of him. It’s a courtesy, you tell yourself, if only a small one. You can feel his eyes on you.

You’ve lost count of the rows by the time Gerard speaks again.

“When I was a kid… my mum taught me about Smirke’s Fourteen, made me memorize them, copy them out again and again, until they were drilled into my brain,” he says.

Unbidden, the image of Gerard as a child comes to your mind, his brow furrowed with the look of intensity he gets every time you hand him a statement, copying out the words in a childish hand- the flesh- the fear of- like a stubborn schoolboy set to writing lines.

You brush the thought away.

“But she- she didn’t know, really know what half the things she dealt with were. She liked to pretend she was some sort of expert, with all of her _practical experience_ , but her ignorance always slipped through. I learned that early, and it terrified me.” 

“I studied every one of my mother’s books, the ones that I could lay eyes on without _changing_ , but that wasn’t enough. I kept thinking that if I just knew more, if I could understand it- maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid.” He takes a shuddering breath. “It started dumb- drawing eyes in my notebooks, on the walls. Drawing them on my skin, and inking over them every day, like some sort of talisman. It _was_ dumb. Kid stuff. But it _worked_. I’m- not sure exactly when I noticed.”

“Hmm.”

“What made you…" The words grind to a halt, and the room is silent but for his short, pained breaths. "How did it work for you?”

You consider for a moment, weighing the words. There’s no pull in the back of your mind. Nothing doing the unravelling for you.

He just wants you to talk.

“I was offered this position,” you say. “And I didn’t know enough not to take it.”

“You had a choice.”

“Something of one.”

“Would you still have done it? Taken the job, if you’d known?”

“Oh… probably. I knew something of it- Archivists don’t die quietly, you know. But it all seemed very… doable back then.” You laugh. “The folly of youth.”

There’s a long silence. 

“Not... that it matters,” he says slowly. “But I think I would have liked to have a choice like that. One that I could have walked away from.”

There's nothing to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more specific content warnings: specifically the manipulation/false concern/abuse of power is Emma faking concern over injuries Sarah got on one of their investigations, and emma's manipulation of gertrude (along with gertrude's negligence about emma's abuse of the other assistances). gertrude's abuses of power aren't explicitly laid out as much in this chapter but I think that element overlays all of her interactions throughout this fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think <3 I've got one more chapter in the works!
> 
> [Come talk to me on tumblr!](corvidfeathers.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! <3
> 
> Come yell at me about TMA and send me prompts on tumblr @corvidfeathers


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